Least Complicated
by Annie Wright
Summary: “I want to love you the way you love me. But I’m just not ready.”


Title: Least Complicated  
Author: Annie Wright (AnnieW177@aol.com)   
Rating: PG-13  
Category: Pre XF, DRR, sequel to 'Wednesday Happy Hour (Say Goodbye)' (you don't have to read it but it might make it less confusing)  
Disclaimer: bite me  
Spoilers: really tiny one at the end for 'This Is Not Happening'  
Archive: sure, just let me know so I can visit  
Summary: "I want to love you the way you love me. But I'm just not ready."  
  
Author's notes at the end.  
  
  
What makes me think I can start clean-slated?  
The hardest to learn was the least complicated.  
-Indigo Girls  
  
  
  
New Orleans, LA  
February, 1999  
  
  
Monica Reyes sat on her verandah, sipping an iced tea as she watched the parade of people on their way to Bourbon Street to ease the tensions of the day. The sun was sinking slowly, casting a pale orange glimmer over the Big Easy, making it glow. It was at times like this when she loved New Orleans the most, especially her flat on Toulouse Street-she was in the heart of everything. She flipped idly through the Times-Picayune, scanning the headlines for anything interesting.   
The ringing of her phone caused her some mild surprise-very few people knew her home phone number. She decided to let the machine get it.  
"Hi, this is Monica," she heard her own voice say. "Leave a message."  
"Uh, hi, Monica, it's John Doggett. . . "   
Her heart skipped a beat, and she ran to pick up the phone. "John?"  
"Screenin' calls? Who are we avoidin', Agent Reyes?" John's accented voice was tinged with laugher.   
"If you'd call more often, you'd know," she retorted, taking the phone outside and sitting back down. "And to what do I owe the pleasure of this call?"  
"Well, I'm down here in Hell-I mean Florida-and I have some time off. I was wonderin' if I could come and pay you a visit."   
"You're on the Kreiger case?" she asked, tossing the paper aside in the search for her cigarettes. "I didn't know they'd called in reinforcements."  
"Well, they weren't going to, but Agent Davies was readin' over the file and got an insight. . .they flew us down here yesterday."  
She lit a cigarette. "And the case was solved today, and tomorrow is Friday. . . " she was grinning.  
"And I asked for tomorrow off so I could visit an old friend in the area."   
"Who just happens to live in New Orleans."  
"And it just 'happens' to be near Mardi Gras. You smokin'?"  
"No!" She stubbed the cigarette out, and mentally slapped herself-he couldn't see her.  
"You're a bad liar, Monica," he laughed. "I can tell."  
"So you want to come see the Big Easy in all its glory," she replied, deftly changing the subject. "I think I can arrange that."  
"You sure? I don't wanna impose."   
"John." She paused. "You are not imposing. I've been asking you to visit for a year now. I was beginning to think you'd never come to see me."  
"So you don't mind playin' tourist with me?"   
She grinned. "No, John. I think I'd like it. We can have breakfast at Café Du Monde, drink hurricanes at Pat O'Brien's, catch some live jazz at Preservation Hall. . . we'll have fun."  
"Great. My flight gets in about 2:30 I think. . . lemme check." She heard papers rustling in the background. "Yeah, 2:30."  
"Okay. . . take a cab to the field office. We can leave from there. . . I can cut out early tomorrow, it shouldn't be a problem."   
"Great. Well, I'll see you then."  
"I can't wait."  
The minute he hung up she lay her head on the table and began to shake it back and forth. "No, this is not happening. This cannot be happening. John is not coming to see me, this is a figment of my imagination. . . "  
"Talkin' to yourself is a bad sign, darlin'," a southern-accented voice said.  
She looked up to see her neighbor, Kevin, holding a beer and laughing at her. "Where's your better half?"  
"Louis is at yoga class. . . all this new age jazz you've gotten him into." Kevin rolled his eyes. "Now who's John?"  
"You just want gossip." Monica grinned as she lit a cigarette.  
"Honey, of course I do. I'm a gay man of the southern persuasion." He hopped over the railings that separated their balconies and sat down across from her. "Now spill it."  
"Okay, okay. I knew him back when I worked in New York. His son was kidnapped, they believed it to be part of a rash of kidnappings with ritual overtones, so they called me in. He was a cop, his kid was missing. . . I found his son three days later, laying face down in a ditch."   
"What a way to start a friendship."  
"Anyway, we got to be friends. He and his wife started having problems, he was sick of the NYPD, so I convinced him to go FBI. He got divorced, went to the Academy, was assigned to work out of Washington. And I was sent here."  
"I believe you are leaving something out," Kevin drawled.   
"What?"  
He leaned forward and looked her square in the face. "Did you or did you not sleep with him?"  
"Kevin!" Her face turned pink.  
"That's a yes." He sat back. "Continue."  
"It was while he was separated, before he went into the FBI."  
"So why is him coming to visit a bad thing? He can't be any worse than that last guy you had here. . . Brad? He was a looker but boy, darlin', he had all the charm of acne."  
Monica laughed. "He's very different from Brad."  
"In what way?"  
"Brad was very. . . "  
"Self-absorbed, self-centered, self-indulgent, selfish. . . need I go on?"  
". . . and John isn't. He's very much a southern gentleman."  
"Is he a southerner?" Kevin's face lit up. "Oh do tell me you've found yourself a good ol' boy."  
"From Georgia."  
"Fine state, Georgia. I like this John already. But please don't tell me you aren't going to pick this fine southern gentleman up at the airport."  
"Kevin, I have to work."  
He gave her a disdainful look. "That's why God created vacation days." When she looked hesitant, he grinned. "You can borrow the Jeep."  
"Can I put the top down?"  
"Honey, you can do whatever you want, just wipe the seat off when you're done."  
  
  
Friday  
2:20 pm  
  
Monica ran into the terminal, out of breath. She had checked the Arrivals board and seen only one flight from Florida-from MIA, and it said the flight had arrived. Afraid she was going to miss him, she ran to the gate and was glad to see that the passengers had yet to de-plane.   
When passengers began to appear, she nervously began to smooth the front of her shirt, wishing she had picked something that wouldn't have wrinkled as badly as this one: but Kevin had chosen it-"Honey, if this shirt doesn't stop him in his tracks, he's gay."-and she must admit Kevin had been right on. It was a lovely ruby color, sleeveless, with a neckline low enough to be noticed but not enough to raise eyebrows. Nervously, she smoothed it again as her eyes scanned the crowd.  
Suddenly, she spotted him. He was dressed in jeans and a blue t-shirt, and her heart skipped a beat. It had been a long while since they'd seen each other, and she had forgotten just how handsome he was. She bit back her nervousness and approached him, glad to see the surprise on his face when he saw her.  
"So, sailor, you got a ride?" she asked, arching an eyebrow.  
"Depends on who's askin'," he replied, grinning. He set his bags down and enveloped her in a warm hug. "You look just as good as ever, Mon."  
"So do you." He smelled the same as she had remembered-like Ivory soap and laundry detergent, and the thought made her smile. "You ready to take the Big Easy by storm?"  
"With you as my tour guide? I think so."  
"This is February?" John remarked once they were in the parking lot. "Hope I don't have to see August in this place. I mean, if it's 80 now. . . "  
"August is not a fun month," Monica said. "Rain or stifling humidity. But July Fourth is always a good time." She opened the door to the Jeep, and John looked impressed.   
"This yours?"  
"No, it's my neighbor's. He lets me drive it." She grinned. "I love riding with the top off."  
John threw his bags in the back and hopped in. "So tell me about your neighbors."  
Monica laughed as she started the Jeep and backed out of the parking space. "Ah, Kevin and Louis. . . stereotypical gay men, which is only made worse by the fact that they're both southern. Everyone is 'darlin' or 'honey' or 'shug', they throw fabulous parties, and Kevin cooks up a mean crab gumbo."  
"So you like them?"  
"Are you kidding? I love them." She smiled over at him. "And they can't wait to meet you."  
"Should I be afraid?"  
"Very."  
He laughed, and Monica was pleased.  
"I told them you were a southerner, and well of course that just set them off. . . they've invited us to dinner tomorrow night."  
"I don't know how I feel about this."  
"They like you already."  
They drove down the highway, the wind whipping through their hair. Monica popped a tape in the tape deck and grinned when the music came pouring out.  
"What the hell is this noise?" John shouted over the noise.  
"Zydeco. . . it's a New Orleans specialty. And you'd better get used to it if you're gonna be here all weekend, cause down on Bourbon it's either jazz or zydeco."  
"Sounds like. . . " he trailed off, at a loss for words.   
"Mardi Gras." She nodded. "You're a bit early for the parades, but they've already begun to set up for them."  
"Is Mardi Gras as crazy as they say?"  
"Worse." She grinned over at him. "If you've got any delicate sensibilities, I hope you left them at the airport because you're gonna see things you never thought you'd see this weekend."  
He nodded and fell silent.  
When they reached the city limits, she turned the music down a bit as she deftly navigated the streets of New Orleans. There were already bleachers set up along several streets, just as Monica had promised. She turned down a street and suddenly John found himself surrounded by old-fashioned buildings with wrought-iron balconies and the distinct smell of seafood.  
"Welcome to the Quarter," she said.   
"Where are we?"  
"Bourbon Street. I don't usually like to drive down Bourbon, but I figured since it's your first time in New Orleans, I'd make an exception for you."   
He could see why she wouldn't want to drive down it-chock full of pedestrians, some with open containers of alcohol, many who looked as if they'd started the weekend already. She had to slow down to a crawl to get anywhere, but it allowed him to see everything. Nice looking restaurants were next door to strip clubs, which in turn were next to bars and clubs offering drink specials. All had music blaring from them, and again it was as she said it would be-jazz or zydeco.  
"How does any work get done in this city?" he asked. "All I see are bars."  
At this, she laughed. "Let's just say New Orleans isn't the most productive city in the continental US."   
She turned a corner, and a moment later she brought the jeep to a halt. "Here we are."  
He took a good look at her building-a two story building that looked as though it would be more at home in France than the U.S. of A. "Which one's yours?"  
"Top right. It's kinda small, but it's nice." She grabbed his bags out of the back of the jeep.  
"Monica darlin'! Yoo-hoo, up here!"  
John and Monica both looked up. "Hey Louis," Monica said. "No yoga today?"  
Louis rolled his eyes. "Yoga is Tuesdays and Thursdays, my dear." He smiled down at them. "And you must be John. I'm Louis. It's about time our Miss Monica brought home a friend for us to play with." Louis eyed him up and down, grinning. "And what a fine specimen indeed."  
John gave her a look. "Why do I feel like a side of beef?"  
Monica laughed. "He's harmless. Come on, let's get you settled."  
They climbed the stairs to her apartment, and were greeted by Louis, who was eyeing John appreciatively "Kevin says you can keep the keys to the jeep, but only until you take your friend to the airport on Sunday." He gave John an almost coy smile. "So, Monica tells us you're from Georgia."  
John nodded, afraid to speak.  
"My momma was from Georgia-Atlanta, no less. Thought they were gonna kick her out of the Junior League when I came out." Monica opened the door, and Louis held it open for them, ushering them both into Monica's spacious apartment while copping a look at John's ass. "Whereabouts in Georgia are you from?"  
"Democrat Hot Springs is where I was born, but we moved New York when I was younger."  
Louis nodded. "I was wonderin' where you'd picked up that bizarre patois."   
John looked around Monica's apartment. Much bigger than her place in New York, it had hardwood floors and was decorated in soft beiges and yellows. He noticed there were few walls-the space was very open, and what walls there were had windows.  
"Nice digs."  
"Thanks. Can I get either of you a drink? Beer, soda, juice?"  
"Beer would be good," John said.   
"I'll have what he's having," Louis said. "Provided you aren't drinking Budweiser."  
"I know better than that," she said, walking over to her refrigerator. She took out three bottles and handed one to each of them. "Is this to your liking?"  
"Abita?" John asked. "Never heard of it."  
" Brewed locally," Monica replied, kicking her shoes off and sitting down on her overstuffed brown couch. "You said you wanted the true New Orleans experience."  
"That I do."  
Louis winked at Monica. "I'll be heading home, now that I have what I wanted. . . it was a pleasure to meet you, John, and I do hope you and Miss Monica will join us for dinner tomorrow evening."  
"Sounds good."  
"Okay kiddies, I'll be next door if you need anything."   
John waited until he heard Louis shut his apartment door before smiling at Monica almost nervously. "That was, uh, quite interesting."  
"I told you they were a trip."   
"Is he always that. . .forward?"  
"No." He gave her a confused look, and she laughed. "He thinks you're cute."  
"I'd say I'm flattered but damn, I think that's the first time I been checked out by a man who was obviously a man."  
Monica burst out laughing before taking a swig of her beer. "How's things in Washington?"  
"Not too bad, can't complain. You like New Orleans?"  
"It's okay. . . I'd rather be in New York. . . or maybe not, I don't know."  
"What happened? One minute you're in New York, next thing I know you're callin' me from LaGuardia sayin' that you're movin' to New Orleans and that you'd call me when you got settled."  
She sighed. "Yeah."  
"Well?"  
Monica peeled the label off her beer bottle. "Remember what you told me about Brad a long time ago? About power trips?"  
"I was right."  
"Oh John, you were so right." She laughed sadly. "I had no clue just how right you'd be."  
"What happened?"  
Sighing, Monica swung her legs up onto the couch and settled her feet in John's lap. "It all started when I came to your graduation. Brad wanted to know why I wanted to go, said it was a silly waste of time and that I shouldn't have gone. I explained I had a friend in the class, someone I was close to, and that you didn't have anyone so I felt I should go. So despite him telling me I shouldn't go, I went." She paused, sipping her beer. "I got back and he was livid, demanded to know who I'd seen. So I was up front and told him it was you."  
"And?"  
"That just set him off again. . . he was just irate, began asking me all sorts of questions, how and when had we become 'so close' that I had to skip work and go see you, asking had I slept with you. . . "  
John's eyes widened. "You didn't tell him."  
"No. I lied, I said we had never been anything more than friends. He bought it, but said I wasn't to have any contact with you. I told him to kiss my ass and walked away from him. That lasted all of four days, until he came knocking on my door, begging me to come back to him. So, stupidly, I went. He was good to me for a long time after that, and then he proposed on New Year's Eve, and I said no."  
"What?"  
"Yeah. I noticed that he was slowly becoming more and more controlling. If I told him I was meeting a friend for drinks, he'd show up at the bar. He'd call my home phone in the middle of the night to make sure I was home. He'd always ask who I was going out with and when I'd be home. It was just too much." She sighed. "The kicker was when I said no, he asked, 'Is this because of John Doggett? If you want to talk to him, I'm okay with it now.'"  
"Gee, thanks."  
"And when I told him I had never stopped speaking to you, he lost it. We got into a huge fight, ending up with me throwing champagne in his face and storming out of his father's very swank party at the Plaza."  
"Why didn't you tell me?" He reached down and placed a comforting hand on her foot.  
"I dunno. . . I didn't want to talk about it." She shrugged. "I asked to be transferred ASAP, which I was, and then he followed me down here and begged me to come back. We fought for the better part of a weekend and when he left we weren't speaking. It's better this way."  
"I'm sorry, darlin'."  
Her smile was wan. "Thanks. And how are things with Barbara?"  
"Surprisingly, they're good. Once we got everything settled we sat down and talked. . . it was good. We don't talk much but it's not as. . . painful as it once was."  
"I'm happy to hear it."  
"Me too." He looked at her. "I think we need to go out and get a drink, whaddaya say?"  
"I say you've never had a better idea."  
  
  
  
  
Saturday  
8:04 am  
  
"Why are we up this early on a Saturday?" John asked as they walked past Jackson Square, which was filled with artists and fortune tellers even at that early hour.   
"I told you…if we don't want to wait several hours for breakfast, we'd better get there early." She smiled at him. "Trust me, it's well worth it."  
The line at Café Du Monde was blessedly short, and so they were seated immediately under the green awning. John looked around. "What is this?"  
"Café Du Monde, a New Orleans landmark known for its café au lait and beignets." She smiled at him. "You haven't been to New Orleans unless you've been here."   
"Coffee and donuts?"  
"Beignets, John."  
"And what's the difference?"  
"How hungry are you?" she asked, holding up the menu. "Can you eat three beignets all by yourself?"  
"Mon, I'm a former cop. I can eat a box of donuts by myself."   
"That's a yes." The waitress approached and Monica ordered two café au laits and two orders of beignets. "So, what would you like to see today?" she asked John.  
He shrugged. "Whatever you wanna show me."  
"You're so helpful." Monica chuckled. "Well, we could walk around the Quarter, or take the streetcar up St. Charles and you can see all the historic homes. . . there's riverboats and a casino. . . you can find just about anything you want here."  
"What do you wanna do?"  
"This is your visit. You choose."  
"But I want you to have fun, too."  
"John, I'll enjoy whatever you choose because I'm with you."  
The tips of his ears turned red, and he smiled. "Why don't you tell me what's worth seein' and I'll take it from there."  
"I personally like the St. Charles streetcar. It's nice and relaxing, very pretty."  
"Then we'll do that."   
The waitress arrived with their breakfast, setting down two mugs of coffee and two plates of beignets, covered with a thick white blanket of powdered sugar. John looked at Monica doubtfully. "How am I gonna eat these?"  
"Very carefully." She smiled. "Well, you can either eat over the floor, or tuck a napkin in your shirt." He studied her as she picked up one of the pastries and leaned over the floor, taking a big bite which sent powdered sugar all over the front of her shirt and on her nose.  
John reached over and wiped the tip of her nose, and a thrill of electricity shot up his arm. He'd been very careful about not touching Monica since that one night in New York, and this was the first time since that he'd done anything more than hug her or place a hand on her arm. "You, uh, you got some on your nose."  
Monica laughed. "I've got some everywhere. Eat up, they're better when they're warm."  
He picked one up and looked at it, looking doubtful before sinking his teeth into the pastry and sending a flume of powdered sugar all over his shirt. Monica laughed at the look on his face, and after a moment he laughed as well.  
"I dunno what the hell these things are, but they're damn good." He took another bite before continuing. "You're neighbors seem. . .interestin'."  
"Are you uncomfortable with them?"   
"No."  
"Liar."   
The tips of his ears turned red. "I guess I'm just. . .not as open minded as you."  
Monica smiled. "It's okay, John. Some people have difficulty dealing with people whose lifestyles are different than their own. But they're good men, John, and they're good to me. But if it'll help, I'll tell them to keep the leers to a minimum. But you have to pretend to be comfortable with them. Deal?"  
"Deal."  
She grinned. "Okay, so. . . how are you liking the FBI?"  
"I hate to admit it, but you were right."  
"What do they have you doing?"  
"Fugitive warrants. It can be excitin', mostly it's paperwork. What about you? What are you doin'?"  
"Sitting around with my thumb up my ass." He choked on his pastry, and she laughed. "Sorry. Honestly, I'm not doing much of anything. There's a lot of history here, lots of voodoo and all that stuff, but in all honesty most of the murders here are very routine killings that I have no expertise in."   
"Can you get transferred somewhere else?"  
"Well. . . the division I really want to work in is the X-Files."  
"Are ya nuts?" John asked. "With 'Spooky' Mulder and his Ice Queen partner? That's a dead end, Mon. If you went there, you'd get stuck."  
"I'd be in Washington."  
"In a dead-end job." He sighed. "You don't really wanna work on the X-Files, do ya?"  
"It's right up my alley. . . unexplained phenomena, lots of paranormal cases."  
"I dunno, Mon. People in DC, they talk about those two."  
"They talk about them here, too. 'Spooky' Mulder and Agent Scully the Ice Queen. . . I hear it all here, too. How he's obsessed with finding his sister, his obsession with conspiracy theories and aliens and, most importantly, with his partner."  
"An' that's just the tip of the iceberg."  
Monica sighed. "I know you think it's a dead-end, but if I got into the X-Files, I think I could really distinguish myself. All I'm doing here is wasting away."  
"So whaddaya gonna do?"  
She shrugged. "Stick it out here for another year or so. . . we'll see. I'd like to go back to New York but with Brad there. . . it's not a good idea."  
"What about the BSU in Washington?"  
"That's where I'd asked to go originally, but I think Brad said something to someone because I'm here, in the FBI equivalent of Siberia." She sighed heavily. "If I had known what would end up happening when I first got involved with him, I never would have done it."  
"Ya couldn't have known, Mon. Ya took a chance and ya lost this time. Next time'll be better."  
"Maybe."   
"Definitely." He gave her a stern look. "Come on, where's that sunny disposition of yours, Miss Positivity?"  
"In the toilet with my career."   
John burst out laughing, and Monica smiled. "Maybe I should consider a career in stand-up comedy."  
"Maybe you should finish eatin' so we can get goin' and I can see this city of yours."  
She reached over and brushed powdered sugar off his chin. "You're a mess, John."  
His eyes softened, and he leaned into her touch. "I was. . . until I met you."  
  
  
  
6:35 pm  
  
"Y'all better hurry, this gumbo is ready and if it simmers any more it's going to taste like shit!" Kevin poked his head in from the verandah. "I have been slavin' over a hot stove all day and you don't even have the courtesy to be on time for dinner."  
Monica laughed. "John's in the shower, he'll be out in a minute."  
Kevin's eyebrows disappeared into his blond hair. "And what did we do today to cause such exertion as to need a shower?"  
"Shut up." Monica laughed. "We walked around all day, that's what."  
"Is that all?"  
"Get out!" Monica slammed the verandah door with a laugh. "We'll be over in a few."  
"I hope you at least had the decency to purchase a suitably expensive wine for dinner!" Kevin called through the door, before leaping over the railing and back onto his own verandah.  
John emerged from the bathroom, his hair damp. "What's goin' on?"  
"Kevin's pissy because we're late." John's brow furrowed in worry, and she smiled. "It's all an act. . . slavin' ovah a hot stove all day," she said, affecting a southern drawl. "Whatever, I've seen him cook up gumbo in an hour. You ready?"  
"Yeah."  
Grabbing the bottle of wine, she locked her door and barged into Kevin and Louis's apartment unannounced.   
"It's about time, Miss Monica." Louis was sitting on the couch, book in hand. "I swear Kevin was about to give birth to a bovine if you didn't show up soon."  
John looked at her, confused.  
"Have a cow," she explained.  
"Ah, how silly of me not to have known."   
Kevin bustled over, corkscrew in hand. "Let's open this wine and get dinner started so we can take your friend out and show him how New Orleans parties."  
"Oh, we went out last night." Monica smiled. "Preservation Hall."  
"Good music?" Louis asked, getting up and returning with four wine glasses. "It's really hit or miss these days."  
"I thought it was pretty good," John said.   
"Well I hope you are ready for Pat O'Brien's," Kevin said, pouring the wine and handing the glasses out. "Let's toast, shall we? To new friends and old ones."  
They clinked glasses.  
"Now let's eat. . . we want to get to Pat O's before it gets too crowded."  
They sat down at the impeccably set table in the kitchen, and Kevin dished out the food. "Now I hope you don't have a delicate constitution, John, because this is not for the faint of heart."  
"Cast-iron stomach," he replied with a laugh. "I think I can handle it."  
"I'm glad to hear it."   
"So what did y'all do today?" Louis asked John. "Did Miss Monica show you our lovely city?"  
"Yeah, we had a nice time. . . we walked around the Quarter, took a streetcar through the historic district."   
"Sounds wonderful." Louis said. "I do love the St. Charles streetcar. I hope you've saved your energy for this evening, however."  
"Where're we goin'?" John asked.   
"Pat O'Brien's," Monica replied. "Home of the Hurricane."  
"What's a Hurricane?"  
"Nectar of the gods," Kevin replied. "One Hurricane and you forget all your problems. More than one, however, can lead to the creation of many new problems."  
"What's in it?"  
"Passion fruit and rum," Monica replied. "At least I think that's what it is. Nobody knows for sure."  
"And everyone drinks these?"  
"It's a tradition," Kevin said. "If you have left our fair city without having a Hurricane, then you have not truly had the New Orleans experience."  
John gave Monica a look. "Suddenly, I am very afraid."  
Louis smiled. "Oh honey, you should be."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Sunday  
3:45 am  
  
Monica lay awake, staring at the ceiling. She was desperately tired, but her mind was going a mile a minute, unwilling to stop thinking about John, about Brad, about life.  
She rolled over with a sigh. They had had such a good time tonight, drinking Hurricanes and laughing and dancing until Kevin and Louis had dragged them home, saying they'd reached their limit and it was time to take the good Feds home. John had walked beside her the whole time, his arm around her waist, helping to keep her upright. She'd barely been able to walk home.   
However, she was sober now. Sober and pensive.  
The illuminated numbers on her clock mocked her, and she sighed, rising. Maybe two Tylenol and a glass of water would help her sleep. As silently as she could, she padded out into the kitchen and opened a cabinet.  
"Mon?"  
Startled, she turned. "I didn't mean to wake you. . ."  
"Didn't wake me, I was up." John sat up on the couch, his face illuminated by the moonlight. "You okay?"  
"Just getting some water. Want some?"  
"Nah."  
She filled a glass and went to the couch, sitting close to him. "Can't sleep?"  
"No."  
"Me neither." She sighed and leaned back. "What's keeping you up?"  
"Thinkin'."  
"About what?"  
He turned to her, and in the wan light his eyes shone. "'Bout you."  
Her heart leapt into her throat. "John.. ."  
"I can't for the lifea me figure out why a pretty thing like you is still single."  
Monica laughed sadly. "I don't know. . . I guess I must be. . . defective or something. Damaged." A lone tear fell down her cheek, leaving a wet trail.   
"No." He reached out and wiped it away. "You're just fine the way you are, Mon. You're wonderful, and pretty, and smart, and funny and God Mon, you're just so good."  
Her breath hitched. "Then why doesn't anyone want me?"  
John pulled her into a fierce hug, entwining his hands in her hair. "Men are stupid, Mon, plain an' simple. We're cowards."  
Her arms snaked around his waist and she cried silently into his chest, leaving damp marks on his t-shirt. He smelled as she remembered, his body felt the way she remembered, and before she knew what was happening they were kissing, her hands under his shirt, his hands slipping her nightgown strap off her shoulder. He kissed his way down her neck to her shoulder, his kisses hot and damp on her skin. He broke the kiss long enough for her to slip his shirt off and then he lay on top of her, kissing her slowly and thoroughly as his hands worked their way up her thighs.  
"John. . ." she managed to choke out.  
He stopped what he was doing and looked at her, his eyes boring into hers. "Do you want me to stop?" he asked, his voice raspy.  
She looked at him for a moment, and in that moment she knew it was a mistake but was powerless against it. "No."  
He stood and in one swift motion he lifted her and carried her to bed.  
  
  
  
  
9:45 am  
  
  
John's arm was around her waist, holding her close. His breath was warm on the back of her neck and she sighed, fighting back tears.   
"What's wrong?" John's voice was thick with sleep.   
"Nothing."  
"You're a horrible liar, Mon." His hand drew patterns on her bare stomach. "Talk to me."  
She rolled over to face him. "What have we done?"  
His eyes, which had been closed, opened slowly. "I dunno, Mon. But I think whatever it was, we fucked up big time this time." His eyes searched hers. "I didn't come down here for. . . that. I want you to know that."  
"I do. But. . . why do we always end up like this?"  
"In bed?"  
"Hurting one another. Why?" She rolled over onto her back. "How is it that we care about each other so much, but all we ever end up doing is hurting one another?" She wiped her tears away with the back of her hand. "I don't know if I can do this, John."  
He rolled over onto her, propping himself up on his elbows to look at her face. "It happens, Mon. You of all people should know that. I don't mean to hurt you, not then and certainly not now." He ran one hand through her hair. "You mean so much to me that if I thought that by never seein' you again I could save us all this pain, I would. But that's not how it works between us, Mon, and you know it."  
Her lower lip trembled in an effort not to cry. "I know."  
"Do you ever wish that we had never met? That we'd never become friends?"  
"Never."  
"Me neither. Not a day goes by that I don't think about how lucky I am to have someone like you. You're my passport to the human race, Mon, you made me human again. And I can't lose you. I won't. Even if it means I leave here today and never talk to you again."  
"No!" Monica's tears fell freely now, and her voice was thick with emotion. "I won't let you."  
"I can't go on hurtin' you like this, Mon, it's not fair to you." He kissed her tears away. "I need you. Known' I've made you cry like this. . . it hurts me, Mon. I don't mean to make you cry, I don't mean to hurt you. But I just. . ." he trailed off, tears filling his own eyes. "I want to love you the way you love me. But I'm just not ready."  
She nodded sadly. "I know."  
"I can't risk losin' you. I need you."  
"I know, John."  
"No, you haven't got the slightest idea of how much I need you." He buried his face in her neck and she felt the warm wetness of his tears on her shoulder. "I'm just not ready yet. I don't want to jump into somethin' and risk losin' you."  
"You'll never lose me, John. Ever. I promise."  
He placed his forehead against hers, looking deep into her eyes. "Don't make promises you can't keep."  
"I never do."  
He kissed her eyelids, their tears mingling on her cheeks, and Monica had never felt so loved or so alone.  
  
  
  
  
  
3:45 pm  
  
They sat in the uncomfortable airport chairs in silence, her head on his shoulder and his arm around her neck, his hand gently stroking the nape of her neck.  
"John?"  
"Yeah?"  
"Do you. . . do you think you'll ever be ready?"  
"Yeah, I do."  
Tears pricked her eyes. "Suppose when you are. . .that it's not me?"  
Gently, he took her head in his hands and made her look up at him, his thumbs stroking her cheeks. "It will be."  
"How do you know?"   
"Because I do."  
Despite herself, Monica chuckled sadly. "But suppose it's not. Suppose you meet some wonderful woman in Washington who you just. . .fall for, and you forget me." For what felt like the millionth time that day, a lone tear trailed it's way down her cheek. "Suppose you decide when you're ready, it's not me you want anymore."  
"Listen to me, Mon. . .it'll always be you. I wouldn't want anyone else."  
"You say that now."  
"You sound jaded, Agent Reyes." A smile played at the corner of his mouth.  
"It happens, you said it yourself."  
"I was hopin' I'd be wrong." His smile turned sad. "God I'm sorry, Mon."  
"Me, too."  
The loudspeaker crackled and John's flight was announced.   
"That's me."  
They stood, and he pulled her into a fierce hug. "I care about you so much, Mon. I never thought I'd feel again, and you changed all that." He kissed her forehead. "I'll call you when I get home."  
"Okay."  
"Smile for me?"  
She smiled, but inside her heart was breaking.  
In a moment of unguarded emotion, John brought his hand to her face and gently traced her smile before kissing her tenderly. "I'll call you."  
She watched him board the plane, and when it was gone she walked out to the Jeep and drove home, the wind drying her tears.  
  
  
  
7:30 pm  
  
"Yoo-hoo, Monica!" Kevin poked his head in the verandah door. "Is our friend. . . oh good Lord. Louis!"   
Monica was laying on her sofa, wrapped in the blankets that still smelled like John, watching 'Beaches' and crying. "What, Kevin?" she asked, sniffling.  
"Monica, honey, what's the matter?" He was at her side immediately, moving her feet so he could sit. "Louis! Bring a pitcher of martinis and get your ass over here!" He sighed and looked at the television. "Monica, honey, no problem is that bad."  
"Yes it is."   
Louis bustled through the door, a pitcher in one hand and three martini glasses in the other. "Good God, it must be bad if she's watching 'Beaches'. Sit up, darlin'."  
Monica sat up and Louis sat down, pouring martinis and handing them out before settling back into the couch. "What's the matter, darlin'? Something happen with John?"  
"Yes."   
"You going to enlighten us, or must we guess?"  
She downed her martini in one and poured herself another. "It happened again."  
"Oh darlin'! That's good!" Kevin gave her a confused look. "Why the tears?"  
"He doesn't. . . he doesn't love me."  
"Now that's a lie," Kevin replied. "Anybody with two eyes in their head can see he's over the moon for you."  
"No, he's not."  
"And why do you say this?"   
"He said so."  
Louis rolled his eyes. "He came out and said, 'I do not love you, Monica Reyes,' is that what you're telling me?"  
"No."  
"Then what did he say to get you in a dither like this?"  
She bit her lip. "He said. . . he wanted to love me like I love him, but he's not ready."  
"I don't think that's necessarily bad, darlin'," Kevin replied. "What else did he say?"  
"He said he needed me, that he didn't want to jump into something and risk losing me."  
Louis sighed and pulled her into a hug. "Darlin', he's got some stuff to work through. But he does care for you. . . anyone with half a brain can see it when he looks at you."  
"Then why does this keep happening?"   
"That I can't answer." Louis sighed. "Monica honey, will you listen to this old southern queen if I tell you something?"  
"Don't I always?"  
"He loves you. I'm as sure of this as I am of death and taxes. I would wager my life on it."   
The phone rang before she could reply, and sniffling, she answered it.  
"Mon? Everythin'okay?" John's voice was worried.  
"Yeah, yeah I'm fine. How was your flight?"  
"Not too bad. You sure you're okay?"  
"Yeah."  
There was a long pause, and she could hear him breathing over the line. "I, uh, I'll give ya a call next week, okay?"  
"Sure."  
"Thanks for havin' me down. I had a good time. It was good to see ya again."  
"You too."  
"'Bye, darlin'."  
"'Bye, John." She hung up and looked at Kevin, whose brow was furrowed in concern.   
"You okay?"  
She started to nod, but bit her lip as she tried to hold back the tears. "No." Kevin pulled her into a hug. "I knew better. . .as it was happening I knew it was a mistake, I felt it, and yet I did it anyway. Why do I always do this?"  
"Because you love him, darlin', and love makes fools of all of us." Kevin stood and turned off the television. "Come on, Miss Monica, we're going to dinner."  
"Oh, no. . ."  
"Oh, yes." Louis stood and pulled her up with him. "Enough self-pity for today. As our great southern heroine Scarlett O'Hara said, 'Tomorrow is another day.' Now get a move on, hon, we don't have all night."  
  
  
  
  
One year later  
2:45 pm  
  
  
Monica was deep into a game of solitaire when the phone rang. Without even looking away from the computer screen, she answered.   
"Agent Reyes."  
"Monica, it's John."  
She grinned. "How's life on the X-Files treating you? Seen any aliens?"  
"Not unless you count these three weirdo friends of Agent Scully's," he replied, chuckling.  
"What's up? You never call me at work." She sat back in her chair and fidgeted with a paperclip, bending and unbending it nervously.  
"I'm actually calling to ask for a consult on this case we're workin' on. I'm about to email your AD, but I wanted to make sure you'd take the case."  
"You want me to help with an X-File?"  
"Yeah. . .we think we've found Agent Mulder."  
"Really? Why do you need my help?"  
"We think he's been involved with a doomsday cult. . .I don't know of anyone else qualified to help me with this one, so I thought I'd call you, seein' as how you've always wanted to work on the X-Files."  
"Well yeah, I'd love to help."  
"Good. I'll email your AD, and we'll get the ball rollin'."  
"Thanks for thinking of me."  
"Wouldn't have called anyone else." She could hear the smile in his voice. "I'll talk to you soon, okay?"  
"Sure."  
  
  
"Agent Reyes," AD Graves said, standing as she entered his office. "Have a seat. I've gotten an email requesting you to do a consult for the X-Files division."  
"Yes, sir, Agent Doggett called me a few hours ago and told me he was going to email you."  
"How do you know Agent Doggett?"  
"We worked together in New York while he was still a police officer. He knows my specialization is in religious cults and he felt I would be an asset to this case."  
"You do know that he thinks he may have found Agent Mulder?"  
"Yes."  
"You have an interest in the X-Files, don't you?"  
"Yes, I do. I feel that the X-Files division is suited to my talents and capabilities."  
AD Graves nodded. "What cases are you working on now?"  
"None."  
"Well, then I don't see that you working on an X-File is a problem. Just make sure you let me know where you are and when you'll be back."  
Monica could barely suppress her grin. "Yes, sir. Thank you." She stood to leave.  
"Monica?"  
She turned. "Yes, sir?"  
"I know that this office isn't challenging you, using you the way that you want to be used." He sighed. "Knock 'em dead on this case, and I'll see what I can do about getting you transferred to Washington. Deal?"  
"Deal."  
Monica practically ran back to her desk, grinning like an idiot. She picked up her phone and dialed John's cell number, reaching his voicemail.  
"John, it's me. . . I got the okay. Call me about arrangements." Hanging up, she looked around with a grin. . .maybe things would work out after all.  
  
  
  
  
Authors Notes:  
  
I realize my timeline doesn't mesh with the OS timeline. . . but then CC doesn't seem to use it himself. Two can play that game!  
  
If you've never been to New Orleans, you must go. Café Du Monde and Pat O'Brien's are both Big Easy landmarks, and a must if you go. And watch out for the Hurricanes, they'll knock you on your ass so fast you'll wonder what happened.   
  
The title comes from the Indigo Girls album 'Swamp Ophelia.' I highly recommend this album-not a bad song on it.   
  
As always, many thanks to Lisa, Sarah, and Megan for the betas. You are saints to put up with me!  
  
Feedback is always welcome at AnnieW177@aol.com. 


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